Assassin's Torment
by Jazoriah
Summary: Emrys, the infamous assassin, had never failed a mission before. Why then does he find himself frozen at the bedside of a sleeping Arthur Pendragon?


All was silence.

The assassin stole along the edge of the courtyard, stopping as he heard the crunch of a guard's footsteps over the gravel. He held his breath, pressing against the wall until the mail-clad man passed into the main atrium. A soft breeze tickled his raven hair as he let his muscles relax just a touch.

The man blinked, turning his gaze to the fourth-story window, absent of any internal light. He moved through the shadows, his bare feet making not a single sound. Hours of submersion in healing oils had softened them beyond disturbance of the stones underfoot.

He reached the stone below the window and listened for the sound of guards approaching. None were forthcoming, so the pale man swiftly scaled the wall and nudged open the window, slipping into the room beyond.

Inside it smelled strongly of candle wax and musk. The assassin looked around, taking in the stack of official looking documents and open books covering the desk and the sturdy-looking sword lying sheathed by the bed. He stepped forward with caution, and the figure lying beneath the covers slowly became visible.

It was a man, well-muscled and tan-skinned, though it was difficult to tell in the half darkness. A shaft of moonlight fell across the man's face, and the assassin could not help but stare.

The man was beautiful. Blonde hair fell across his forehead in complete disarray, providing sharp contrast to his strongly defined cheekbones and jawline. His lips were parted in a soft pout that looked almost inviting and his eyelashes fluttered a little as he dreamt.

The assassin breathed deeply. It had been a long time since he had hesitated this long with a mark. He furrowed his brow, steeling himself, as he pulled a thin dagger from beneath his tight shirt. The target shifted in his sleep, bringing a hand to rest on his chest. The moonlight flashed at the assassin as it caught the silver ring on the sleeping man's hand – the ring that marked him as the Crown Prince Arthur of Camelot.

The assassin lifted the dagger, poising it above the prince's heart. In that moment, the tip of the blade seemed to sing to him, of darkness and destiny and freedom from the Pendragons' tyranny. He breathed deep, gripping the dagger firmly. It was time.

Yet something stayed his hand. The skin of the young prince seemed almost ethereal in the half-light, and the assassin found himself almost drawn to touch it. He smothered the impulse, readying himself for the plunge, but in a moment of weakness, found his gaze shifting back to the young prince's face.

And was met by a pair of deep blue irises.

The prince had awoken.

The assassin tensed, ready for the shout, the struggle. He told himself to use the knife but the weapon merely trembled in his grasp.

The prince made not a sound. He did not move. He simply gazed back at the man sent to murder him with curiosity in his eyes.

The assassin could not so much as blink. The man who was supposed to be his victim held him completely entrapped, simply because there was no fear. He did not spare a glance for the deadly blade perched over his exposed chest. He simply looked on with interest, apparently as intrigued by his assassin's internal struggle as the pale intruder was captivated by the prince's peace.

The supine man let his eyes wander to the collar of the assassin's tight shirt. With cautious fingers he reached to touch the material. The assassin remained frozen where he was, seemingly unable to control himself. The prince deftly swept the material down and to the left, just low enough to reveal the circular tattoo over the pale collarbone.

"Emrys," breathed the Prince, once again meeting the astonished intruder's eyes. For a single beat, neither of the men breathed.

The assassin let out a small choking sound, and he dropped the dagger. The point dug into the skin over the prince's heart before tilting and tumbling onto the bedding, but the prince did not flinch. He simply watched with fascination and what might have been awe as his would-be killer struggled, his orders to kill the prince of Camelot warring with an almost physical revulsion at the idea of hurting the man before him.

It made no sense. This was not his first kill. He was not so weak as to allow emotions or petty hormones to dictate his actions.

He clenched his fist, feeling his heart pound against his ribs for no sensible reason at all. He looked to the dagger, abandoned on the sheets. A tiny smudge of blood was visible at the very tip. The sight of it made him feel ill. Again he met the eyes of the prince, who now looked at him with not only curiosity, but also trust.

The assassin shook his head, backing away.

Everything had changed. He had no idea how but this enthralling stranger had destroyed his intent. He had to leave. He had to get away. Now.

The assassin spun on his heal, sprinting to the window and hurtling himself into the outside world. In seconds he had worked his way down the stonework and was stealing across the courtyard, making his way to the overwrought gates leading to the main town. Just before he slipped through an opening in the decorative iron, he looked back towards the sleeping Prince's room.

A blonde figure watched him from the window, blue eyes meeting his for a final time.

The assassin held his gaze for a long moment, before ducking his head, confusion and anger bombarding him in waves.

He made not a single noise as he disappeared through the iron gate.

**A/N:** This was just a random thought I had last night. I wrote it in about an hour so you'll forgive the lack of decent substance. And now my contacts are fighting my hay fever over who can be a bigger pain in the arse while I'm trying to read, so I'm gonna go. Hope you enjoyed! 


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